Me: “Hi, and welcome to Why Is Daddy Crying. Today my son walked down the stairs and claimed he took a “really solid shit,” and ten minutes later my daughter was caught feeding a pencil to the dog to chew on.”

Grayson: “But, before we go any further, did you know that for just $1 a day for 365 days you could become a “stalker” member of my dad’s blog?”

Macy: “That’s right. With your membership, you will get a tiny sheet of paper to keep in your wallet or purse that tells others you stalk Why Is Daddy Crying. In addition, we’ll email you plastic fake teeth fashioned by renowned modern artist Akejeudh Von Piekdhjak. The teeth are perfect replicas of the massive front gap-teeth Why Is Daddy Crying lives with each day.”

Grayson: “You know what Macy, this hour only….I’ll even throw in a spork that Why Is Daddy Crying tried to kill himself with the last time I got out of bed and interrupted mommy and him knocking boots.”

Macy: “WOW!!! That spork is legendary! Remember the time the dog tried to eat it and daddy snagged it just in time and started chasing the entire family down the block with it? Now THAT’s a gift!”

Grayson: “It sure is sister-lady. In fact, I’ll go even a step further. Six years ago my mother informed Why Is Daddy Crying that he was going to be a dad with their second child.

“At that very moment he performed the rare, and never-seen-before action of “shartuking.” That’s right Macy. The man literally shat, farted, and puked all over himself.

“Now, it wasn’t his sexist moment in life, but we were fortunately there to capture the moment and strip and bag the man of his clothes."

Macy: “WOW, Grayson…that is phenomenal.”

Grayson: “Yes, yes it is Macy. Now, for those listening. If you make the decision to give $5 a day for 365 days, supporting Why Is Daddy Crying at the ‘come around the corner and I’ll let you ‘see it’ level, then you’ll get a 6 inch by 6 inch swatch of the clothes he wore upon the shartuking incident.”

Macy: “So there you have it…it’s your choice. Give at the ‘stalker’ level or the ‘come around the corner and I’ll let you see it level’ – either way, your money is going to support a man who we sadly call our dad, except for when he’s face down on our front lawn…then, well…we refer to him as the ‘jumpy house.”

The formula is brilliant. Spend 15 seconds knocking your opponent down, pouring gasoline on them, and lighting them on fire in front of the world. Then spend 15 more seconds making yourself look like you not only walk on water, but created water, the land, Earth, and play poker with baby Jesus on the weekends.

I can just imagine the young-buck interns and political public relations strategists who sit around a large bong coming up with these brilliant, mind-numbing attack-ads.

So, with that thinking, I decided I should run a mock election between my kids. My son, the left-wing redheaded advocate of creating government programs (like ICFTAYS – Ice Cream For The American Youth Service) running against my daughter, the right-wing lover of supporting corporate America (primarily American Girl dolls) are vying for the senate seat in my Congress.

So now the stage is set…let the attack ads go!!!

This message is approved by Macy.

Candidate Grayson. He wants you to believe he can hoola hoop for an hour straight. He claims he can spell “because” without cheating. And he even tells adults that he loves broccoli.

Candidate Grayson pees with the seat down and doesn’t wipe-up afterwards. He once told his mother she has a large butt….and then laughed. Candidate Grayson eats his own boogers.

If you want a booger-eater representing you in Congress then Grayson’s your guy.

Candidate Macy once saved a unicorn from a tar pit and 10 minutes later fed Africa. Candidate Macy invented the clock and recently negotiated with the Mayans to fix their calendar so we all won’t die in 2012.

This November, vote Candidate Macy for Senate and let that turd-wrestler Grayson go back to the school yard.

“Hi, I’m Macy and I approve this message and I look really cute in pigtails.”

I’m fairly confident that’s an ad my dear daughter would have helped assemble and happily distributed on any media outlet willing to take her money.

Now, on to the boy’s ad.

This message is approved by Grayson

Candidate Macy kicks me in the shin when she doesn’t get what she wants. She can’t read, she can barely write her name, she doesn’t flush after she poops or pees, and she still needs her mommy to help her ride her 2-wheel bike.

I have personally seen Candidate Macy almost kill a grown man over her blankey being washed in the washing machine.

I’ve witnessed her beating a tree with a stick, smashing a tiny ant, and telling her mother she hates her just because she wanted to put her hair in pigtails.

Is that who you want representing you in Congress?

Candidate Grayson mapped out and personally taught the entire system of migration to birds in order to give these flying beasts a better lifestyle.

Candidate Grayson personally hand delivered Saddam Hussein to hell and then turned around and made it rain in the Sahara Desert.

He holds the record for the most “your mamma” jokes told in 24 hours, has the cure for cancer, and holds the patent for the design on ladybugs shells.

It’s pretty clear Candidate Grayson’s the man we all need in Congress.

“Hi, I’m Grayson. I approve this message and I CAN spell ‘because’ without a cheat sheet.”

All right....that's it. You've read both ads. Now tell me....who would you vote for?!

School starts Wednesday for the little bastards so I figured I’d try to get into the wet-stuff as much as I possibly could. The pool that is...

As I slide my white-assed self into the pool waters and started tossing the little nippers around I quickly noticed…holy shit, there’s a lot of teenagers around here. And like being thrown into a warp-speed, throw-your-head-back kinda light-year geeky TV-effect I was projected to 2020 - my daughter’s 15, wearing a bikini, at the pool and I’m in the corner clutching a beer crying while thinking, “I really really need to have ‘The Talk’ with her.”

I’m scared shitless of “The Talk.”

I’ll never forget my dad giving us “The Talk.” I was 12 (I think), which would have made my brother 14.

My dad was all liquored-up and probably felt it was time for my brother to hear about the birds and the bees so shit, why not the younger brother too?!

Long story short, for the next year or so, I was confident sex was when a man lays next to his wife, places his penis inside her, then they both go to sleep. That’s right…with the penis still inside her.

And I remember I had two HUGE questions.

1) What happens if the dude has to go pee in the middle of the night?

2) What the hell does a jack-o-lantern have anything to do with sex?

To this day when someone says jack-o-lantern I suddenly become 12 again and hear my dad say, “and then the man jack-o-lanterns into her.”

A part of me feels like when it’s time for “The Talk” I should just find a picture of a penis, hold it up in front of the kids and wait two minutes till everything in the room feels really awkward.

Then I’ll turn to the girl and say, “this is a penis. Boys have the penis. If a boy shows you his penis, I’ll kill him. If a boy talks about his penis to you, I’ll kill him. If you touch a penis, I’ll kill you and him. There is no need for you to see, touch, talk about, experience, or go near the penis until you graduate college.”

Then I’ll turn to the boy and say, “if your sister sees, touches or comes near a penis, I’ll kill you. If you see or hear-of anyone coming near your sister, thinking of your sister, or dreaming of your sister with their penis, tell me and I’ll kill them.”

Then, I’ll buy them both some new music, hug them, and send them on their way.

OK, I’m exaggerating…but I’m also kind of not.

I’m thankful to have plenty of time to plot my war-plan to protect my kids’ innocence as best I can, while making sure I arm them with enough knowledge so that when they do fuck up, it’s not life altering.

In the meantime, I’m just going to enjoy tossing them around in the pool and watch them fight with all their might to come right back to my open arms.

The kids love rice. They love honey. They love pineapple. And if you put a bowl of edamame in the middle of a room and unleash the little bastards they’ll literally fight to the death until it’s all gone.

Feeding edamame to them is like tying down a small child and throwing it into a room full of zombies. Yeah…like that.

But when you lovingly toss it all together on a plate, gleefully place it in front of the troops, stand back and wait for the overwhelming cheers…all we get is the kid’s version of Chef Ramsay.

“Dad! What the fuck is this you donkey? Come here…taste this! It’s crap dad! Crap!”

I absolutely love cooking. There’s nothing better than cranking the radio, pouring a full glass of red wine and knocking out a killer meal. But with the birth of two little rug-rats we’ve fallen victim to the lure of eating out.

Sitting at a table, having beer brought to you on demand without having to lift a finger while plates of goodness are brought is such a wonderful thing. But damn that’s expensive.

And sushi is…make that “was”…our weakness. We LOVE sushi!!! But damn it’s expensive.

The boy has to learn to eat food that costs less than $50 to create. The girl…well, she would eat chicken nuggets and chicken noodle soup until the world ended.

So, we’ve taken the old school “we used to walk to school uphill both ways” philosophy of parenting.

Last night we fed them pork chops. They tried it. They hated it. They went to bed with empty stomachs. And, yes…I showed them the trash can with their food in it and said, “daddy listened to a story on the radio today where a lady who struggles for food said a good day for her is when she gets half a glass of goat milk and cornmeal soup for the day.”

To help the message sink in further, maybe weekend we’ll take the boy to a soup kitchen.

I won’t categorize the experience as learning through guilt. Instead, I chalk it up as teaching through reality.

I’ll know I’m successful when he cleans his plate and then says, “dad, can we volunteer at the soup kitchen again this weekend?”

OK, now I’m dreaming. So I’ll lower my goals and just shoot for the clean plate.

That phrase has probably been on the tip of every frustrated parent’s tongue at dinner time since the invention of kids. It’s on mine nine time out of ten.

But at the last second, that tiny little filter kicks in, erases “the fuck” and “damn” and cranks out the appropriate, “Sit down and eat your dinner!!”

Cussing in front of the kids is becoming more and more of an issue for me the older they get. The boy is hearing the words at school and even knows how to spell them.

“Daddy, I know how to spell the ‘F-word’. Wanna hear it?”

This is going to shock you but I cuss like a goddamn sailor. As soon as the kids’ heads hit their little pillows I flip the switch off and just let it flow.

But recently, that switch has been a bit lose and I’ve accidently dropped an “ass” or “shit” here and there. The boy is always quick to say, “daddy!!! You just said a bad word.” Or the wife quickly snaps her fingers at me as I feel my testicles cringe and the hair stand-up on the back of my neck.

It usually only happens when I’ve broken something, or hit my massive noggin on something. I always feel awful after I say it, too.

I follow it up with, “Grayson and Macy, you know you’re not supposed to say those words right?”

“Yes daddy, we know.”

I have a buddy who has “Cuss Friday” with his two boys that are 7 and 12 years old. Every Friday he allows them to say any cuss word they want. The rules: they can only say it to their father, their mother can never know (even though she does), and if they ever cuss in public or to another person the privilege of the game is over forever.

At some level I can appreciate that. It’s like controlled cussing in a way. But, then I envision what that would be like with my son and me.

Me: “What’s up motherfucker?”

Son: “Not much cock-smoke. Can I have some goddamn juice asshole?”

Me: “Shit yes you can. Go get it your fucking self.”

Son: “Fuck you old man, you go fetch it ass-bag.”

Me: “Don’t be a dick son. I’m not going to get it.”

Son: “FINE!! Goddamn it. I have to do everything!!”

After I play that through my mind I just can’t do it. I think I’ll stick with the modern version of the way it used to be: father works on lawn mower, scrapes knuckles along bolt, says “shit!!!!,” wife who is gardening near-by says “Walter!! The children for goodness sakes!!,” and father says, “sorry kids. Daddy shouldn’t have said that word. That’s a bad word and you should never say bad words.”